The grumpy server brings a pot of bo nay cha, the kind that is well known to cut grease. “Yiu mut yeh?” she asks. “What do you want?”

Great-Aunt Violet says, “This place specializes in typhoon-shelter-style crab, Feelie. So we’ll have that first, okay?”

Ophelia nods. “Smells good.”

“Spicy, extra spicy, or super spicy?” the server asks in impeccable English.

“Extra spicy,” says Great-Aunt Violet. “Super spicy would be too much, I think. A little heat is good, to draw out the deliciousness. But too much, and you can’t eat the dish.”

The server nods, scribbles, and vanishes.

In the back, dishes bang and clatter. The crab-pink lights in the dining room flicker. Outside, the rain pours down in torrents, making a temporary river of the narrow street.

Ophelia looks expectantly at her great-aunt.

Great-Aunt Violet crosses her eyes at Ophelia, as if to say, “Why me?”

“You promised you’d tell me,” Ophelia says.

Great-Aunt Violet sighs.

Why is it that the grandchild most distant from the history is the one most interested in it? Do you think you can bring it back? You can never have it back, and thank goodness, because it was a miserable time. Why do you want to look? I don’t want to look. My generation endured so yours wouldn’t have to. You have other options. You should use the advantages you were given to do something useful.

You want to know about my sister, your grandma? You want to know if it’s true that she murdered your grandpa? Where did you even hear that story? Well, it might be true, and it might not be true. Who is to say? So many years have passed, Feelie. It’s long over, and Hong Kong is a different place. Why do you want to know? What good will it do for her or for you now?

And why does everyone want to know about her and nobody cares about us? Always, it’s Emily, Emily, beautiful Emily. Emily the beloved. Emily who suffered. Emily who had children. Emily who died for our sins. Well, she’s not around anymore. She died. I’m alive. So you’re stuck with me, and what I remember, and what I’m willing to tell. Sorry about that, but that’s life. Sorry I’m not her.